Crime doesn't pay here either

(7/29/92)

Taking up residence in a small town requires planning. Phase One entails finding out who your enemies will be. You do this by dashing off a Letter-to-the-Editor of the local newspaper, criticizing everyone who uses pesticides on his lawn for poisoning "your" robin.

Phase Two involves permanently raising your adrenalin level by getting in deep doody with every law enforcement officer in the county. You do this by relating a cute little story about a law enforcement officer, in your new column. Praying that the word processor proves mightier than the traffic summons, here goes Phase Two:

I was chatting with a neighbor on her front porch the other afternoon, when a gleaming white patrol car paused in the street and made a U-turn, stopping at the curb in front of us.

"That was illegal," we cried, grinning broadly and shaking our fingers at the officer who emerged. And I, who execute that identical traffic maneuver on an average of twice a day, added: "I wish we'd had a video camera."

Oh oh! We realized our little pleasantries had not sat well when the officer gave us a blank stare, then crossed the street to attend to his business. On his return, he told us that he couldn't hardly make an arrest any more without it being videotaped by half a dozen tourists. "Life must be awful dull in Ogallala," he concluded bitterly.

"That it must," we hastened to agree.

The officer was getting back into his car when my friend's cat strolled into the street between its wheels. We were about to call out a warning, when the tom returned safely to the curb. Then, just as the officer turned his ignition key, the cat paused, raised his tail, and let fly a stream onto the white fender.

Collapsing in helpless giggles we watched the car drive slowly off down the street. If only we'd had a video camera. Nothing dull about life in Ogallala!

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